


Sometimes the love story starts at the end

by Achilles_Angst



Category: Lockwood and co
Genre: F/M, Fluff, I mean it, Say goodbye to your teeth, and my dignity, honestly lol, this is so fluffy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:28:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22041079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Achilles_Angst/pseuds/Achilles_Angst
Summary: I will be forever mad that these two never canonically kissSo here’s my take on the end of book five.This is basically a whole ton of tenderness. Enjoy!
Relationships: Lucy Carlyle/Antony Lockwood
Comments: 11
Kudos: 76





	Sometimes the love story starts at the end

Lockwood likes Lucy. He liked Lucy pretty much the moment she rang the bell, and his emotions have only increased over the years he’s known her. 

He likes her dark, serious eyes, the solid intensity of her gaze. Her eyelashes are a dark swoop against her cheeks, inky black. He likes her eyebrows, heavy and frequently quirking up in wry amusement or tugging together when she’s trying to piece together fragments of speech three hundred years old. He likes the sharp, straight line of her nose and the broad, curved lines of her cheekbones.  
He likes especially the full, warm curve of her lips and the sharp white gleam of her teeth. She has a habit of catching her top lip between her teeth when she thinks, which is something of a distraction to him. 

He thinks sometimes that he would very much like to card his fingers through her dark hair, which smells enticingly of vanilla. 

Lucy is self conscious over her body, he knows. God knows why. He likes the broad, powerful line of her shoulders, the full curves of her torso. He wants desperately to spread his hands above her hips, against the bottom of her ribcage where her skin curves in in a way that looks designed to be held.

He is privately grateful that the skirts cannot hide her hips entirely, nor the soft muscular lines of her thighs. 

Lockwood is unsure as to when he began seeking Lucy out as she entered a room, when he started thinking of her as beautiful. When did he first want to kiss her? The truth is that he has no idea. Loving Lucy Carlyle is not something that can be pinned to a calendar, prepared for, adjusted to. 

She inhabits all of his spaces. After her long absence, her presence in his rooms, sharing the same space as him seems something to be marvelled at, to be held precious:  
Lucy curled in the library, steam rising from a mug next to her. Lucy, learning on the kitchen counter with her head tilted back as she laughed. Lucy with her mouth soft with sleep in a taxi with them, her hair brushing his shoulder.

Even in the cold, glittering streets of other London, he cannot keep his eyes off her, her stark, solemn expression and the determined slant of her jaw. He tells himself, determined, that when they get back he will kiss her, or at least ask if he can kiss her. The thought of touching her runs through his bones like melted toffee, a relief against the unflinching frozen harshness of the black sky.

When he unspools the necklace, lays it atop the papers, his heart thumps against his ribcage in an unexpected terror. Part of him wants her not to understand the significance of it despite his explanation, but he cannot give her anything less. 

He remembers the rush of bone deep, ice cold terror he felt when he had realised that they had been separated in the Fittes hall. The throbbing stab of fear had left him dizzy, gutted, breathless. He needs her to know that. He needs her to understand that he couldn’t stand the thought of a world that did not contain her.

In a rush of cowardice, he leaves the necklace, says he’s going on a walk and flees down the stairs, heart hammering. He gets his coat at a more leisurely pace, and very slowly begins to wander down the street, hoping with a fervent, frantic hope that she-

“Lockwood!”  
He turns and she is running towards him, hair and jacket flying out behind her like she’s afraid of missing him, of letting him slip away.  
She skids to a halt just next to him, and in a swelling rush he spots the glimmer of blue at her neck.  
Almost unconsciously, she reaches up and brushes her fingers against the gleaming blue stone, and Lockwood reaches out with infinite care to cover her hand with his, pressed over the sapphire.

Almost shy, Lucy looks up at him. Her eyes are soft in the quiet evening light, so dark they could almost be black. She is perfectly still, her small hand hot against his. Lockwood can barely breathe, locked into the depth of her gaze.  
With solemn deliberation, Lucy gently slides her hand free. Panicked, Lockwood drops his, frantically wondering whether to apologise when Lucy, still moving with the same slow deliberation, reaches out through the still evening air and laces their fingers together. 

Lockwood is wary of breaking the moment, but he squeezes their hands together regardless, and Lucy’s face lights up with her smile. 

They walk like that for a little way, Squeezing back and forth. Astounded by his own good luck, Lockwood traces along her thumb with his own, delighted by his ability to touch for the sake of touching.

Carefully, he unlaces their fingers a little so he can trace the other fingers of her hand. He stops walking when he turns her hand palm up, bringing up his other hand so he can hold it steady while he traces over each finger, the lines of her palm.  
Lucy watches him, and her face goes soft and tender when he lifts her hand to his lips, presses a kiss to her warm, calloused palm. Carefully, reverently he kisses each knuckle before he lowers their hands. He feels untethered, lighter than air, and when Lucy, eyes wide and a little cautious, leans up towards him he thinks he could float away.

He doesn’t, but instead leans down to meet her. At first, they bump noses, and Lucy gives a tiny laugh before he tilts his head and oh. Oh. 

Lucy’s mouth is soft and warm, and this close all he can smell is vanilla. The press of her lips is intoxicating, dizzying. He tingles from his head to his toes with the shocked delight of it, of kissing Lucy Carlyle. 

The first few kisses are a chaste, dizzy rush, until they suddenly get the angle just right and Lucy parts her lips ever so slightly. Lockwood frees his hands so he can cup her face, feels her arms settle around his neck as Lucy lets her mouth slide open against him. 

Lockwood thinks this might be perfection. He feels like fireworks have been set off inside him, fizzing through him as they kiss and kiss. Lucy slides a hand against the back of his head, holding him as close as possible as he slides his thumb along her cheekbone. He wants to do this forever, he thinks, bask in this glowing warmth as Lucy smiles against his mouth.

He pulls back so he can look at her, lips reddening and cheeks pink, eyes glittering like stars. She is the most beautiful thing he has ever seen and he tells her so, and she flushes pinker at the praise and beams up at him, her necklace sparkling in the last of the evening sun. 

Their journey back to Portland row is very slow, because Lockwood cannot spend longer than a minute without pulling her close and kissing her again, astounded that he can. Lucy swings their hands gently together, laughs delightedly when she is tugged in for another kiss.

In between kissing, they talk. Lucy talks about finding new artefacts to decorate the house, about a leaky tap they need to fix, about what might be for tea. It is easy, delightfully easy to pepper their conversation with kisses, Lucy leaning up to peck him on the cheek, visibly thrilled by it. 

As they approach the house, Lockwood can’t resist a last, sweeping kiss on the front steps before the door is opened. The other three are standing waiting for them with expectant expressions, and Quill takes one look at them and gleefully tells Holly that she owes him a doughnut from Arifs.

Lucy laughs, bright and clear and happy as she apologises to Holly and Lockwood thinks that he could do anything at all and still be alright, as long as he can make Lucy Carlyle laugh like that again.


End file.
